


so that these wings may fly

by parareve, thatsmia



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: AKA the fic where Adrien learns to let people in, Aged-Up Character(s), Bad Boy AU, Body Positivity, Daddy Issues, F/M, Get ready for angst, Mental Health Issues, Supportive Relationship Development, Underage Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8786956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parareve/pseuds/parareve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsmia/pseuds/thatsmia
Summary: If growing up in the world of fashion has taught him anything, it's that survival relies on three things: money, connections, and the ability to perform an everlasting balancing act. He’s watched them all do it. There are those who stand in the middle of their tightrope until the ends of their days; those who will make it to solid ground, cross the threshold of a new beginning, and take the first cautious step onto a thinner thread. And then there are those who will look down past the clouds, those who will see the world beneath them; who will take in one slow, steady breath, spread their arms, and jump.September in Paris comes with little surprise, until two words turn the fashion world upside down. The image of newly-seventeen and freshly self-renounced Adrien Agreste goes viral overnight.





	1. lock and key

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic was wholeheartedly inspired by [gittana's bad boy AU](http://gittana.tumblr.com/tagged/bad-boy-au) \+ my awesome beta & co-author [thatsmia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsmia/pseuds/thatsmia)! I've been wanting to write an ML fic for so so so long and I'm so excited to collaborate on this with her.
> 
> Short warnings:  
> All main characters are high school aged (16-18) in this fic, which is above the legal age of consent/drinking age in France.  
> There will be developing sexual themes, and tags + beginning A/N's will change to reflect that as they do.  
> I am not French and will likely make mistakes when making cultural references, so feel free to correct me if it is needed!

Chaos littered the third-floor studio of the Agreste building.

 

In the hands of every assistant designer, sales manager, graphic editor, and supervisor fluttered a high-gloss storm of image and text. The magazine swelled from cover to cover with interviews of up-and-coming designers in high fashion, opulent portraits and short articles peppering the space between them. Thirty-two pages built into a cacophonous roar in the open room, and the attention of every pair of eyes floated between six black-and-white spreads.

 

The subject of focus, a tall speck of black and blond in a sea of suits and manicures, stood in the midst of the familiar monthly panic with about as much interest as the white dress form beside him. Critique days always came with an extra shot of stress, and after seven years of headlining his father’s brand, the crunchtime-fueled-cocktail was dull and routine. 

 

Adrien glanced over the shoulder of the intern in front of him. She was a carefully manicured replica of every other employee on the studio floor: bent-backed, professionally dressed, glasses adjusted and eyes closely observing every detail of the editorial spotlight. His brows perked unevenly as he skimmed over the high-contrast images of himself, shadowed beneath the careful scrutiny of the intern, before turning back to his rushed excuse for dinner, a “balanced” salad à la spinach and sprouts.

 

If balanced meant equally bitter, then he’d have to agree. The earthy greens tasted like he felt, and within the hush of murmuring in the room his eyes sought out one individual.

 

This shoot was Laurent-Claire’s designated breakthrough into Gabriel’s hand-selected team of photographers, and she’d dressed accordingly, her cropped hair elegantly pinned back and thick lashes the extent of her makeup. She looked like the natural she thought she was, and she was prepared for compliments.

 

With the way his father stood conducting an orchestra of editors, swatting away words of praise like flies and pinpointing on criticisms for last-minute edits, Adrien doubted she would be getting them. 

 

Working under Gabriel Agreste meant little room for opinion and a glass ceiling of expectations. He had seen his fair share of tearful interns leaving his father's office, shaken employees stowing away their portfolios, and a constant revolving door of talent.

 

At one time, he may have pitied the unfortunates with crushed dreams and broken muses being escorted from the fourth floor. Now he envied them.

 

The intern in front of him was new, and from her rigid determinism to blend in, Adrien could safely assume she wouldn’t last either. But her attention, like everyone else, had nothing to do with the Adrien behind her, absently pushing forkful after bland forkful of spinach and sprouts in his mouth, and everything to do with the colorless Adrien staring into the camera, head tilted and shoulders relaxed and thumb between his teeth. 

 

It was a disconnection he had learned from an early age, one that forced him to look at his own reflection from an outsider’s perspective. He was never going to be _Adrien_ in anyone’s eyes but his own; to every employee he came in contact with, whether in person or through a digital file, to every publishing firm, newscaster, photographer, and stranger on the street, he was the face of Agreste. His identity had been stripped from him long ago, sold to mass media like a faceless stock and plastered to the walls of thousands of designers and fans who knew nothing of him save his name and his body. 

 

Why that had become so normalized, and how, was something that escaped him. After seven years of living behind closed doors, brought out from an ornate display case only when needed and locked back in when his task was done, Adrien had learned to stop asking. Frankly, he didn’t care anymore.

 

From the center of the room boomed Gabriel’s voice, a short and assertive tally of edits to be made, and the mayhem of the studio whirled into rapid procession. The magazines were gathered and stacked, editors rushing back to their stations with sharp commands in tow, assistants filtering into the nearby hallway to carry the refinement demands downstairs. Above it all, the rain pelted against the glass roof, the incessant ticking of a thousand hands on an unseen clock.

 

Adrien scraped the remains of his salad into the nearby trash bin. The issue would be released to the public in the morning.

 

* * *

 

_Sunday, 18/9/2016_

_12:02 PM_  

 

_“It’s the word on everyone’s mind today, and it should come without a surprise–the Agreste Design Firm has released yet another stunning collection this year, just in time for the fall season!”_

 

 “Marinette!” The images of heeled models gliding down a velveteen catwalk flashed briefly over the screen, and Alya huffed before breaking the quiet air of the Dupain-Cheng’s living room with another shrill holler. “ _Marinette_! Come on, you’re missing it!”

 

A muffled voice squeaked out a curse before the hall bathroom door burst open with a rush of steam, uneven footsteps clambering to keep on oversized bath slippers as a wall of pink terrycloth tumbled into Alya’s shoulder.

 

“Hey–!”

 

“I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_ –did I miss it?”

 

“No, it just started, calm down–”

 

_“Velvet and leather seem to be a popular combination for these looks! As you can see, this morning’s runway show was met with quite the crowd. Everyone in Paris seems eager to see what’s in store for the Agreste duo. As usual, the collection’s release was spotlighted by none other than Agreste’s up-and-coming heir!”_

 

At one time, Alya may have rolled her eyes at the breathless keen that wobbled out of her friend’s mouth as her celebrity crush appeared on the screen with a slow pan from head-to-toe. Three years of constant bombardment of everything Adrien Agreste had forced her to accept Marinette’s obscene affection early on.

 

_“Today’s press release has gone well so far for Gabriel Agreste, with many fans and fellow designers giving this season’s collection high praise. And as promised, today the press has been given a rare treat to get exclusive peeks at what the future has in store for this dynamic duo! Joining the Agreste pair themselves are Nathalie Sancoeur, head design assistant, Louis Moreau, head editorial manager, and Jaye Lemaire, head management supervisor! Let’s turn it over to the press!”_

 

Marinette shuffled eagerly onto the bar stool beside Alya as the first reporter spoke into their mic. 

 

 _“Bonjour. I would first like to address Monsieur Adrien. This collection has featured many promotions of your work–within the past few months, you have truly become the “Face of Agreste,” as_ La Mode _has popularized. Do you feel as though this is true of your position in the firm?”_

 

Adrien’s voice echoed from his mic after a short pause, speckling the static air through Alya’s speaker.

 

_“Of course. Someone has to advertise.”_

 

The hint of a smirk curled the corner of his lip. Marinette bit down on the corner of her mouth to stifle a grin. 

 

_“For Monsieur Agreste–building off this, Adrien is gaining a seemingly bigger presence in this company. Are speculations of him taking over in the near future true?”_

 

Gabriel Agreste sat at the center of the press table, an image of tailored reserve against the swarm of camera flashes that angled towards him.

 

_“We’ll see.”_

 

Murmurings of the crowd built into curious chatter before being silenced by a further question.

 

_“Monsieur Adrien, you have gained a sizable following on social media over the past year. How has this impacted your career?”_

 

A slight chuckle caught on the end of a slow murmur as Adrien scratched his head.

 

_“Well...it’s nice to know I can bring smiles to so many pretty faces.”_

 

Gabriel’s steely glance was nothing near amused, and Marinette’s dreamy cataloguing of those words was promptly axed by Alya spewing her sip of milk out her mouth with a spluttering cackle.

 

“Oh _shit_.”

 

“ _Alya_ –”

 

“Sorry, sorry!”

 

_“Do you feel your work life and your social life are becoming hard to separate, due to your popularity?”_

 

Adrien’s smile ticked on one side. _“You say that as if I have one.”_

 

The interviewer laughed good-naturedly as the next question was directed to the department heads. Adrien didn’t join in. 

 

Only half-listening to the professional responses given by the other members of the board, Alya took measured care of wiping her mouth and the table corner’s unfortunate target of her mess before turning a pointed look towards Marinette.

 

“I still don’t know what you see in him,” she said blankly, instantly shushed and batted away as Marinette propped her chin on her hands and stared intently at the screen. “ _Really_ , Mari, he’s...not that great of a guy. You’ve seen how he’s treated fans before–” 

 

_“–And that concludes the questions related to the company mechanics! We appreciate everyone who participated. To close off our interview this evening, we have one last question we would like to toss out to Monsieur Adrien.”_

 

“–and how he’s reacted to paparazzi–”

 

“Alya, _shh_!”

 

_“What are your plans for the future?”_

 

There was a pause of exactly four seconds before hell broke lose.

 

Adrien smiled calmly, his fingers tugging at the end of one sleeve cuff before he looked directly into the camera, static buzzing dully through his microphone.

 

_“I’m quitting.”_

 

* * *

  

Seeing the Agreste name peppered through French headlines was, on most days, a normality. Bold headings only scraped the surface of the morning news. 

 

Two million views in under sixteen hours had sent a bootlegged excerpt of Nadja Chamack’s press release to #1 on all major media platforms, whose short clip featured one question and the two-word response that sat glaringly bolded on every news headline in Paris.

 

**_AGRESTE HEIR LEAVING_ **

**_THE END OF THE AGRESTE EMPIRE?_ **

**_ADRIEN AGRESTE: “I’M QUITTING”_ **

**_THE AGRESTE FEUD UNCOVERED_ **

 

Nearly overnight, the fashion world had been turned on its head. Videos of the aftermath of yesterday’s interview had trickled throughout morning news reels and blog posts, showing shaky camera pans through the roar of questions that jumbled across reporters’ mics and a blurry shot of Adrien Agreste standing from his seat and walking away from the stage.

 

The twenty-second excerpt had played like a mantra throughout the every news platform all morning, and with a frustrated huff, Marinette clicked off her phone’s display.

 

No one had anticipated that response, not even the most cynical critics of the direction for Agreste. It had been thoroughly cemented into the public’s mind that the design empire wasn’t going anywhere any time soon–but implications of an abruptly removed successor were infinite and heavy-handed.

 

“Maybe it was just a hoax,” Alya offered as they walked through the crosswalk. “I mean, legally he can’t do anything official until he’s eighteen–all financial and managerial decisions fall under Gabriel.” 

 

“I don’t know,” Marinette muttered, “I just...even if it is, I can’t believe he would do something like that.”

 

Alya arched a brow with a scoff. 

 

“If you tried digging any deeper past your ‘Adonis-Adrien’ fantasy, you would _not_ be surprised.”

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means,” Alya said slowly, thumbing through notifications on her phone with a deepening frown, “that this was a long time coming–wait, what the _hell_?”

 

“What?” Marinette stopped beside their lycée’s gated entrance, giving Alya an unamused glance. “That DJ again–?” 

 

“No way. Shut _up_.” Alya peered closer to her phone with wide eyes. “This was posted an hour ago.”

 

“What was?”

 

“ _‘Following the aftermath of yesterday’s announcement, the press has been informed that Gabriel Agreste has agreed to a temporary suspension of Adrien’s position in the company.’_ Oh my god, what blew up between them?”

 

“Wait, _what_?” 

 

Alya tilted her phone as Marinette swerved beside her to stare down at the screen, continuing with a sudden gasp, “ _‘In response to this, Adrien will no longer present at press releases or showings and will be attending lycée at JdS–’_ ”

 

The noise Marinette made was entirely inhuman.

 

“He’s coming to Janson,” she blubbered. “ _Here_. He’s _coming here_.”

 

Alya glanced up at the sound of a car door clapping shut, her brows raising to her hairline with a soft snort as her eyes trailed the boy walking from it. 

 

“Uh...Mari.”

 

The first bell chimed through the great hall with a dull echo, scattering the birds that had gathered along the pebbled walkway. Marinette slowly followed Alya’s gaze, and with a rapidly loosening jaw took in the image of a wool-coated, freshly self-renounced Adrien Agreste striding across the courtyard.

 


	2. opened cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> get ready for the night of ur lahiffe

“I can’t do this.”

 

The hallways of Janson de Sailly had always held an exuberant air about them, filled with energetic chatter and squeals of laughter and the clamor of students filtering between classes. 

 

It had never felt foreboding. It had never felt like  _ this _ .

 

“I  _ can’t _ do this.”

 

The usual jumble of conversations had boiled down to hushed murmurs as one boy strode down the hallway with little care for the eyes following him–one boy whose bone structure had become more common knowledge in Paris than the first name of their own mayor; whose loose, natural curls had remained a staple trend since last year; whose newly declared separation from the most well-known designing firm in Paris had plastered his name over every screen all morning.

 

If anyone had told Marinette her celebrity crush would be walking five paces in front of her before today, she would have laughed in their face and shown them the door.

 

“When have you ever had the chance to talk to him in person, let alone  _ see _ him?” Alya folded her arms with a knowing grin. “Come on. Don’t even try to tell me you don’t want to.”

 

Marinette shot her a quick glare.

 

“You don’t even like him,” she grumbled.

 

Alya shrugged and made a thoughtful frown. “Eh. You’re not wrong.”

 

“Then why would you even–oh, forget it. I am  _ not _ talking to him.”

 

_ Absolutely not _ , Marinette told herself as she fixed her eyes on her phone screen.  _ Nope. Not at all. _ She ignored the whispers building into louder conversations and muffled giggles around her, frowning determinedly as she scrolled past speculating threads and short reactions to this morning’s news, not looking up for a moment to notice the rapidly approaching dark blur in front of her.

 

The collision sent her phone clattering across the marble floor and her field of vision into a wall of black wool that rumbled with a startled grunt as her legs tangled beneath her.

 

The hand that braced against her shoulder squeezed a little too firmly in its speed to catch her, and Marinette flinched at the cold press of metal that mingled with warm, calloused skin. She followed the arm that held her and with a stuttering breath darted her eyes up from a sharp tanned jaw and dusky lips to vibrant green eyes.

 

“You okay?” Adrien smirked a little, his brows raising inquisitively as he glanced over her.

 

“Wh– I– Uhh...yes.” Marinette pulled her bag back over her shoulder with a sharp swallow and carefully plucked herself out of his grasp. “Yeah. Sorry…”

 

The conversation that had bubbled around them had come to a hushed silence, curious gazes and nudging elbows all directed towards a bemused Adrien Agreste bending down to pick up the phone that had tumbled from Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s hand.

 

The clumsiness was expected. The headfirst plunge into the new boy at school was not, and all nearby eyes were drawn to them.

 

Marinette could feel them burning into her skin from every angle, but the most she could manage was a flustered smile as tanned fingers turned over her phone to check the case for any damage before handing it out to her.

 

“You got lucky,” he murmured, “I figured it would’ve cracked from that fall.” 

 

Marinette took the phone from him slowly. “Yeah, I...uh...tend to be...lucky, I guess–” 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

The directness of his question caught her off guard, and with a quick blink Marinette straightened further, her brows furrowing slightly.

 

“Marinette. Er, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

 

One golden brow arched high in response, as Adrien sounded out the vowels absently in his head. The name was a mouthful, clunky on his tongue and fitting for a freckled girl who all but tackled him to the ground, but there held some sort of charm to it. 

 

His mouth twitched at a smile before committing to a soft smirk. He may have just renounced his name, but he still had an image to uphold, and he wasn’t planning on breaking it any time soon.

 

“Pretty,” he thought aloud, making a point of letting his eyes sweep over her before catching on parted pink lips with mild interest, his eyes flicking up to meet sunny summer blue. “A good name for a pretty lady.” 

 

He winked at her. Marinette almost dropped her bag. 

 

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” Adrien added with a smile, and Marinette fumbled with pulling her bag over her shoulder before stuttering out a small, “Yeah, maybe.” 

 

As if sparked back to life, the hall erupted into a sea of hushed whispers, wide eyes and raised brows following the boy who stepped into the nearby classroom and darting back to the girl digging her nails into the strap of her bag like a lifeline.

 

Alya’s chuckle sounded off somewhere behind Marinette’s shoulder, and she sagged into the weight of her heels with a weary groan, monotone and dragging as her friend clapped a hand encouragingly over her back.

 

“Well.” Alya brushed her free hand through her cropped curls, moving her bangs from her face and adjusting her glasses up her nose with the air of a professor waiting to make a great speech. Marinette melted further into the floor. “If I knew leaving you alone for two minutes would get you to all but yell at your crush to get in your pants, I would have been gone a while ago–” 

 

“ _ Alya _ !”

 

“–but, damn, my luck just isn’t great, huh?” Alya shifted her weight onto her hip with a knowing smirk before glancing over at the open entryway to their right where students were filtering in. “Isn’t this your class?”

 

Marinette looked up to confirm the room number with a hesitant huff. Alya’s grin stretched wider.

 

“You know Agreste just walked in there, right?”

 

If the gates of hell were opening around her, Marinette welcomed it with open arms.

  
  


* * *

It was her  _ Physique-Chimie _ block. 

 

The words glared at her from her textbook, the two subjects she had never been able to manage well no matter how many hours she determinedly scoured the web for alternative teaching methods. Subsequent years of struggling through her required sciences had turned physics into a poison on her tongue and chemistry into a immediate headache.

 

Usually, she dealt with her biweekly confrontation of those two words sitting quietly at her desk and glaring sourly at the oversized death manual while waiting for Dr. Reiser, actual grim reaper himself, to show up fashionably late.

 

Today she met them with a harsh bang as her book toppled out of her hands and fell on the floor.

 

Her face was hot. A few students chuckled nearby, but they were the least of her concerns–the only gaze she could feel was the warm pinpoint of two green eyes sitting three desks behind her.

 

Alya’s reminder had helped her be minutely more prepared to walk into her classroom, ready to face the lanky form of blond, green, and black likely sitting right in front of her. She hadn’t expected him to be at the back of the class. She hadn’t expected to see him with his coat draped over the back of his chair and sitting in a charcoal turtleneck with his sleeves pushed up his forearms, the definition of tendons in his wrist deepening as he stretched out his fingers, his earthy green eyes flicking up to find hers as she stepped up towards her desk.

 

Sitting down had been an accomplishment. Fumbling to pull out her textbook hadn’t been.

 

It felt like being in the hallway all over again, and Marinette’s cheeks burned as she smacked her book flat to her desk.

 

There was no reason for her to feel like this. No reason for her heart to be hammering, other than being embarrassed–who wouldn’t be, making a blatant fool of yourself in front of your peers twice in a row?–and absolutely no reason to care that a rich boy who happened to be infamous in most lycées in Paris was sitting three desks behind her.

 

Alya’s words jumbled through her mind as she squeezed her eyes shut, a hazy reminder of the fact that Adrien Agreste was not solely well-known for his looks.

 

_ He’s...not that great of a guy. You’ve seen how he’s treated fans before, and how he’s reacted to paparazzi.  _

 

Everyone had seen their fair share of that, over the years. Being an Agreste, any celebrity for that matter, demanded an understanding of public attention, and if there was one thing that the design firm’s recently-renounced heir had made clear over the years, it was that privacy had no exceptions.

 

There had been more than one video circling the web of a suited Adrien Agreste walking off press stages with sharp glares and harsh words directed to the paparazzi swarming around him, of blatant threats spat to the press after a show, of some uncalled for remarks given to overly-zealous fans. 

 

Everyone had seen unpleasant sides of Adrien Agreste. And still, she couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that he would just quit, no questions asked and no reasons given.

 

_ If you tried digging any deeper past your ‘Adonis-Adrien’ fantasy, you would not be surprised. _

 

Marinette frowned. She knew Alya’s words were often teasing, a sharp but honest comment thrown out in the midst of witty sarcasm and hard truth, but she had never viewed Adrien as a  _ fantasy _ . 

 

She knew there were unpleasant sides to him. She knew there was more to him than a pretty face, designer looks, and a world-renowned last name. She knew that most of what made up Adrien Agreste was unadmirable, and yet something about him still made her knees weak, made her pulse sharpen, made something like admiration beat in her chest.

 

Not everyone could take the life of a celebrity for what it was worth, refuse the picture-perfect mask given to them, and still retain a sense of realness. Not everyone could stare down a road they had likely been force-fed, encouraged to pursue for promise of fame and wealth, and turn it down.

 

And it had shocked her. It made her curious. It made her wonder  _ why _ . 

 

Marinette swallowed before glancing over her shoulder, peeking between three pairs of students to find a downturned head of blonde waves and a tanned thumb scrolling through his phone. The only person who had elected to sit beside him was Chloé Bourgeois, the mayor’s daughter who used her name like a weapon and had a similar disdain for outsiders. Supposedly they had been friends, but Marinette wasn’t sure if she believed it. A teasing sneer, a poke of a manicured nail, and the unamused response of a quick glance didn’t speak “friends” to her. 

 

A quick buzz against her desk turned Marinette’s gaze down to the text that popped up on her phone’s display.

 

**_Alya [8:54AM]:_ ** _ still alive? _

 

Marinette huffed before typing out a quick response.

 

**Marinette [8:54AM]:** barely

 

**_Alya:_ ** _ good to know I can plan ur funeral early then _

 

**Marinette:** [sent a image]

 

**_Alya:_ ** _ don’t tell me _

**_Alya:_ ** _ he’s sitting in front of you isn’t he _

 

**Marinette:** that would be even w orse

**Marinette:** he’s sitting in the back

 

**_Alya [8:55AM]:_ ** _ oooh what a tru bad boy _

**_Alya:_ ** _ then who’s sitting next to him? _

 

**Marinette:** the queen bee herself

 

**_Alya:_ ** _ oh god _

**_Alya:_ ** _ OH GOD _

**_Alya:_ ** _ EUGH _

**_Alya:_ ** _ NO _

**_Alya:_ ** _ NOOOOOO _

**_Alya:_ ** _ not surprising _

 

**Marinette [8:56AM]:** Reiser just walked in

 

**_Alya:_ ** _ did u mean: satan _

 

**Marinette:** [sent a image]

 

**_Alya:_ ** _ since when is he early _

 

**Marinette:** since today

**Marinette:** gotta go

 

**_Alya:_ ** _ may th force b with u _

**_Alya:_ ** _ btw chanel called sunburn isn’t in season for 7 mo _

 

 **Marinette:** thanks for the input

 

* * *

**_Nino [9:34PM]:_ ** _ dude _

**_Nino:_ ** _ duuuuuude _

**_Nino:_ ** _ u there? _

 

Adrien squinted slowly into the dim light of his bedroom, another vibration chasing up his leg and pulling a tired groan from his chest as he ground his palms against his eyes.

 

**_Nino:_ ** _ I just got my check from thursday’s gig _

**_Nino:_ ** _ € _ _ 250 more than I was thinking _

 

**_Nino [9:35PM]:_ ** _ do u even _

**_Nino:_ ** _ dude _

**_Nino:_ ** _ we have to go out tonight _

 

**_Nino [9:36PM]:_ ** _ u there??? _

 

Tanned fingers searched tiredly through the wrinkles in the comforter to close around his phone, pulling up the dimmed screen and tapping on Nino’s texts with furrowed brows. Adrien skimmed through the messages with a slow blink before beginning to type out a response.

 

**Adrien [9:37PM]:** Yeah sorry

**Adrien:** Long day

 

**_Nino:_ ** _ it’s been literal months since we’ve gone out dude _

**_Nino:_ ** _ m o n ths _

**_Nino:_ ** _ c’mon my treat _

 

**Adrien:** I cut out the tutoring, I’ve got classes now

**Adrien:** I’m already walking a tight line rn

 

Adrien sat up with a sigh, slipping his headphones down to rest against his neck and watching the blinking dots beside Nino’s icon.

 

**_Nino:_ ** _ cmon who’s really gonna notice _

**_Nino:_ ** _ since when has your dad actually done anything?? _

 

There had been plenty of times where Adrien had snuck out into the night, no one the wiser among the house staff or his father. His second excursion to a local club had put him in the path of Nino Lahiffe, part-time DJ and proudly-proclaimed university dropout.

 

“It wasn’t for me,” he had said months ago, in answer to Adrien’s bemused question of why he had picked DJing over the management career he had pursued. “I mean, it would’ve helped out my family, sure, if I took over the business like they wanted to. I still help out. But it’s not for me. Music’s my passion. You gotta follow something.”

 

Now nearly nineteen years old, wild haired, always sporting sleek glasses and a satiny bomber, Nino had become one of Paris’s newest up-and-coming underground artists. He had gained a bit of a cult following in the smaller local clubs, and his name was quickly climbing in popularity among other indie EDM producers.

 

**_Nino [9:40PM]:_ ** _ besides you just turned a new page bro _

**_Nino:_ ** _ new start _

**_Nino:_ ** _ new life _

**_Nino:_ ** _ gotta go live it _

 

That has always been a phrase of his, something that had stirred a recognition in Adrien that he had never truly felt by himself. Growing up in the world of cutthroat fashion and wealthy corporate owners had taught him to accept things the way they were, to always adapt to them, to change them, to let work be a staple of evolution but to never evolve yourself. Recognition was the key to success. Outside image held a far heavier weight than inner desires.

 

Within the fixed rigidity of that mindset, Nino came into his life like a hurricane, a storm of bright lights and free thought and creativity and an addictive beat that crawled up his skin and thrummed inside his chest. 

 

**Adrien [9:42PM]:** Yeah

**Adrien:** Okay

**Adrien:** Where we headed then?

 

**_Nino:_ ** _ yessssSSSSS _

**_Nino:_ ** _ wherever ur heart desires my man _

 

The memory of nearly one year ago, stepping beneath the street edge of an old warehouse into the sizzling beat of a dim lit room, sparkling ceilings and velveteen chaises and dark coats and silky skirts, popped into his mind in a rush. Adrien could already feel the grin growing on his face.

 

**Adrien [9:34PM]:** Rossignol

 

**_Nino:_ ** _B)_

**_Nino:_ ** _ I’m picking u up in 20 _

**_Nino:_ ** _ get ready for the night of ur lahiffe _

 

* * *

Any local club in Paris could boast the same promise of a good night, full of electric beats and well-dressed patrons, neon lights and shimmering glass.  _ Le Rossingol _ held an eclectic charm to it. 

 

Adrien stepped out from the cab Nino had got for them, already feeling the thrumming of the bass through the pavement beneath them. He tugged on the lapels of his jacket, the striped scarf hanging down his frame pulled closer to his neck against the crisp fall air, his breath mingling with the fog that clouded the city.

 

Nino hopped up onto the curb beside him, pressing his brimmed hat over his loose part of tight curls and pocketing his hand in his raven black bomber, iridescent and inky against the dim light of the street lamps. He shuffled into a languid dance with the muffled beat of alternative rock thrumming from the underground club, his lips parting in a bright grin.

 

“It’s been a while, frère,” he chuckled, “God, am I ready. I need to loosen up.”

 

“You’re job is professionally loosening up,” Adrien said with a smirk, walking with him towards the alcove that descended beneath the pavement. A neon sign painted a swath of bright teal across them, bouncing off their shoes in sleek reflections.

 

“Well...can’t argue with that.” Nino shrugged, shooting Adrien a raised brow from behind his glasses. His amber eyes twinkled mischievously. “Then  _ you _ need to loosen up.”

 

One look from the man in a dark gray suit at the foot of the steps rewarded them with an open door. Neon teal gave way to magenta, bright blue, and the glittering reflection of a mosaic mirrored ceiling. The club welcomed them with a haze of smoke and the harmonic strums of low voices mingling with electric guitar rifts, crowds of young adults gathered amongst glittering tiles and deep velvet couches.

 

_ Le Rossignol _ was known for three things: class, exclusivity, and rock. 

 

English voices tumbled through layers of echoed lyrics as a blend of classic and alternative rock danced across the room, ebbing and flowing in a languid rhythm that snapped with the crash of cymbals into a more upbeat song.

 

Adrien could already feel himself loosening up, tension melting off his shoulders and back as he submerged into the terraced room, Nino stepping into the crowd beside him with an energetic smile and shoulders already shifting to the beat.

 

“You want something?” he asked, motioning his head to the vintage bar on the far side of the room.

 

_ You have class,  _ Adrien’s conscience warned, pressing and incessant in a little whiny voice he had already elected to ignore.

 

“Something flavored,” he decided, eyeing an inviting crimson chaise and a coffee table ashtray being cleaned and set back by dark manicured nails.

 

“Gotcha,” Nino said with a pat to his shoulder and a smirk. “Be right back.”

 

A nod and few paces put Adrien sinking into plush velvet cushions, resting back against the deep red chaise and pulling out a thin cigarette from the pack in his pocket. The girl who had cleaned the tray leaned over him from the back of the couch, offering him a soft smile before tilting her head. Her hair, twisted into a loose updo, had been dyed an assortment of silvery tones, glowing opalescent beneath the sparkle of neon lights as she held out a light for him. 

 

He stared up into her eyes, bluebell and glittering, and then down at the dark vampy nails that had clicked a flame to life in the lighter she held for him. He leaned forward to let his cigarette burn, glowing orange and crinkling at the edges, before slipping it between his lips and taking a long drag. The smoke stung his throat, like every time. Cigarettes and liquor were never a good combination, but with a slow puff of breath, he pushed the knowledge from his mind.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Smoke curled around him in hazy swirls, and the woman smiled, a ghost in the misty air of the club. 

 

“Have a good night, Monsieur Agreste.”

 

* * *

“Alya, who are you texting?”

 

“No one.”

 

Marinette shot her an unconvinced glare before flicking through their streaming options, her lips pursing in concentration.

 

“Okay...what do you want to watch? Movie? TV show? Um...cartoons?”

 

Alya typed away furiously on her phone with a smug grin.

 

“ _ Alya _ .”

 

“Sorry! Sorry…” With a nonchalant smile, Alya tossed her phone to the couch beneath her and propped her hands on her knees. “TV show! And...well, you know me–”

 

“No superheroes–”

 

“–What?!”

 

“Let’s watch...ooh, this new British show came out, and look at the fashion, it’s about the monarchy–”

 

Alya covered her face with an exasperated groan.

 

“Okay,” Marinette huffed, “What about this?” She pointed to the American drama that had become popular over the past few months. Alya’s groan sharpened into a howl.

 

“Not  _ American shows _ …” she gasped, “Anything...anything but–” 

 

“Fine, then you pick!”

 

Marinette flung the controller to her friend, not batting an eye as Alya’s overdramatics faded immediately into a cunning grin as she scrolled through the options and settled on comedy series. Marinette fiddled with her pencil, tapping on her sketchbook slowly before glancing over at her.

 

“What is it you don’t like about Adrien?” she murmured slowly.

 

Alya glanced over at her phone screen before raising her hazel eyes to give Marinette an amused glance.

  
“Should I start with one-through-ten, or…?”

 

“You really don’t like him that much?” Marinette blurted, frowning.

 

Alya shrugged.

  
“I mean, I guess I can’t blame him for it. There’s probably not much he can have a say in, in his own life. But it doesn’t excuse how he chooses to act. Or hide that fact that this “poster child” act he puts up all the time is just an excuse to use his name the way he knows he can.”

 

Marinette bit her tongue. Alya did have a point, but still...he couldn’t really be all that terrible, could he?

 

“Maybe it doesn’t excuse anything, but it does give a reason to it, doesn’t it?”

 

“A reason to what?” Alya turned to her with furrowed brows.

 

“Well…” Marinette reached up to fiddle with her hair. “I mean, a reason for why. For all of that. If his immediate reaction is to lash out at things, doesn’t that speak to some deep-seated issue?”

 

“Trust me, he has issues,” Alya muttered, facing back to the screen.

 

“Okay, so...that says it, then.”

 

“Having issues doesn’t excuse being an ass.”

 

“Alya…”

 

“Wait, why do you care?” Alya said suddenly, her eyes darting back to Marinette’s inquisitively. “I mean, I know you like him, but don’t get into this mindset that he’s someone who needs help. Especially from you–”

 

“He’s a person, Alya–and what does that mean?”

 

Alya sighed slowly, her brows drawing together.

 

“Mari…” She shuffled closer to her on the couch, setting her phone aside. “It’s not that I don’t see him as a person. That I don’t recognize he could have things going on, and yeah, maybe that gives an explanation for things, but...you don’t even know him. He’s…” She exhaled sharply. “Look. It’s not my place. But I’ve dug up enough information to know. He’s not someone you should want to get involved with. Especially for some lovestruck angsty teen plot you’ve constructed for yourself, because those romance tropes are not how you work with real people.”

 

Marinette blinked at her, flushing a little in embarrassment.”

 

“I...I know that–and I, I didn’t think that, I don’t have some...idea of that, I just...there’s a person under there. I want to see who it is. I want to help him.”

 

Alya looked at her a long moment before sighing and resting back against the cushions.

 

“You’re too kind for your own good, Mari.”

 

Marinette looked up at the laughter on the screen with a small frown.

* * *

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrien knew that vodka and nicotine didn't make for a good combination, but the thought was hazy as he crushed his third cigarette in the nearby ashtray. 

 

Finding dancing partners had not been difficult over the past hour, and neither had finding more intimate offers. Nino had had no objection letting young women and men alike drape themselves over him in casual asks for dances and kisses, prattling on about their occupations and asking about his. He was recognized by a few club-goers and had been occupied for the last few minutes by a passionate conversation with other young musician hopefuls avidly seeking advice.

 

Adrien's idea of unwinding involved significantly less conversation and the subtraction of any possible partner, and he had removed himself from the excitement to find the bathroom.

 

Dim lights and thin curtains carried him through the corridors of the club, passing young couples who had sought out more private areas for shy exploration and a few groups of older students jabbering on while crushing pills with a razor blade. His fingers twitched and his eyes darted away, a tasseled velvet curtain swishing closed behind him as he stepped into the bathroom.

 

It was small and old, checkered tile and rounded porcelain and chipped mirrors that sparkled iridescently with the glow of pinkish lights in the room. It smelled of sweet smoke and sweat, and Adrien's head swam.

 

Two cocktails shouldn't have been enough to get him tipsy, but he could feel the warmth in his face, and it brought a scowl to his lips.

 

Tonight was for  _ relaxing _ . Not getting riled up.

 

He scrubbed his hands beneath the cold water of the sink, a chill chasing up his skin as he looked up at his reflection, before he pressed his damp palms to his face. The cold rush did little to calm the heat between his temples or the heavy drum of his pulse, but it did calm the flush in his cheeks. Wearily, he braced his palms against the sink, taking in and releasing a deep breath.

 

The memory of the aftermath of the press release was still fresh enough to sting, and he tried to steer his mind away from it when his thoughts ventured there. It sent his pulse jumping into an irregular pattern and his breath tensing.

 

_ Relax. _

 

Adrien looked up into his reflection again, green eyes focusing on the twin image before them. The familiarity bit into him for a different reason than it should have. He wondered if it was the pressure that made her crack, too.

  
His shuddering breath echoed in a bathroom that was too still and too quiet, and he cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.
> 
> Exams and a busy start to break put this off for a bit, but here we are! I thought that having Nino aged-up in this would create an interesting dynamic, so hope you like that!
> 
> Adrien's and Nino's outfits are based off [these](http://static.fashionbeans.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/hermes.jpg) [looks](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/dd/d0/77/ddd0777eeea8ff80b94d97253a235cd0.jpg). Le Rossingol is fictional, but is based off the idea of Le Tigre, which is a Parisian club that caters to a similar genre.
> 
> For reference, Adrien's appearance in this fic is largely tied to the model [Lucky Blue Smith](https://68.media.tumblr.com/e9140bcfadcc895f2a043ecb2bfa20bc/tumblr_odadjcS6Ac1vp21xxo1_500.jpg).
> 
> We love reading comments, so don't be shy if you'd like to leave one! Hope everyone is enjoying a nice break and holiday, and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The [3rd floor studio](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/58/15/1e/58151e0ff2c30fbba808c278512b989c.jpg)  
> [Lycée Janson de Sailly](http://referentiel.nouvelobs.com/file/15399674-paris-les-propos-antisemites-et-complotistes-d-une-prof-de-janson-de-sailly.jpg)
> 
> Thank you for reading, good luck to everyone with exams!


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